


A Matter of Control

by draculard



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Force Choking (Star Wars), Heed that 9th tag y'all, Humiliation, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kneeling, Loss of Control, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Humiliation, Set during Alliances, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26984884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Darth Vader decides it's time to teach Thrawn a lesson about who's really in charge aboard the Chimaera.
Relationships: Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Darth Vader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	A Matter of Control

It was clear Thrawn didn’t understand what this meeting was really about. That much was made obvious by the fact that he was already halfway through a glass of ale when Vader arrived, and he didn’t stop sipping at it as they — well, as just Thrawn, really — discussed their plans to uncover the disturbance in the Force the Emperor had spoken about.

But this meeting wasn’t about the Force. This meeting was about the fact that Thrawn had now openly defied him no less than three times. Vader waited patiently until Thrawn had finished outlining his plans; he allowed Thrawn to start on his next grievance — the way Vader treated his subordinates — and didn’t stop him until Thrawn had stood of his own volition, to show Vader something on his datapad.

Thrawn made it one step from his chair before he stopped in his tracks, frozen by the Force.

“You misunderstand me, Admiral,” said Vader.

Thrawn’s bright eyes narrowed at him; he said nothing as Vader stood, towering over him. When Vader lowered his head so that his faceplate almost touched Thrawn’s nose, Thrawn didn’t flinch. He gave Vader an exasperated, impatient look, as if this were all a childish game he didn’t wish to play.

Well, let him think that. He’d learn soon enough.

“Strip,” Vader said.

He stepped back, releasing his hold on Thrawn. The Grand Admiral didn’t move. His eyes shifted, following Vader contemplatively as he moved away.

“Strip,” Thrawn repeated, sounding almost amused. He set his datapad down on the tabletop casually. “Is that really what you want?”

Vader let the silence speak for him. He let Thrawn study him as long as he wanted, knowing that eventually Thrawn would have to make a choice: either to defy the Dark Lord or to obey him.

Thrawn seemed to realize this, too. He weighed his options. He watched Vader with a quirk of his lips that almost resembled a smirk. And then, with a minuscule shrug, he inclined his head.

“As you wish,” he said dryly.

Thrawn stripped slowly, almost teasingly; but through the Force, Vader could tell that it wasn’t entirely insolence that made him slow. Although that was certainly the aura Thrawn projected — and the look on his face was one of studious indifference — it was almost entirely a front.

Something inside Thrawn had frozen when Vader used the Force to stop him in his tracks. Vader could feel the quiet hum of adrenaline that had turned Thrawn’s muscles weak, forcing him to move slowly if he didn’t want his limbs to start shaking from strain. He was thinking hard, trying to come up with a way out of this; perhaps he’d decided the best route was to pretend it didn’t bother him at all; perhaps he hoped that if he played along, this power struggle would end before it went too far.

Vader said nothing. He watched silently as Thrawn’s white tunic opened, revealing blue skin and the hard planes of Thrawn’s chest and stomach. His hips were narrow; the thick material of his uniform served to fill him out a little more than Vader had expected, revealing more of the naturally slim frame the Jedi had once seen when they worked together years ago. 

Quietly, Thrawn shrugged out of his tunic and folded it on the conference table next to him. With a lazy wave of the hand, Vader swept the tunic to the floor in a crumpled heap. He watched Thrawn’s stony face for any sign of irritation — a twitch of the eyebrows, a flicker of the eyes — and saw nothing. Thrawn removed his undershirt in one smooth, graceful motion, the muscles in his arms shifting visibly as he pulled it over his head — then, with a studious glance at Vader, Thrawn deliberately held the undershirt out next to him and let it fall to the floor. It landed on top of the tunic.

He was a fast learner; Vader supposed he could concede that without harm.

Thrawn’s hands slipped down to his belt buckle, not hesitating as he undid it and slid the belt out of its loops. He looked unperturbed as he unbuttoned his trousers and undid the sealing strip. Without a change in expression, Thrawn bent down and tugged off his boots while his trousers were undone, giving Vader a tiny glimpse of the black underwear he wore underneath.

Only when his boots and socks were off — and carefully arranged next to the growing pile of clothing on the floor — did Thrawn slide his trousers down past his hips. His underwear was tight, the waistband standing out starkly against his blue skin, the outline of his cock fully visible. Thrawn stepped out of his trousers and stood, his back straight and his posture self-assured; his thighs, Vader noted, were muscular and strong like that of a much younger man. 

Like Anakin’s had been.

Back when he had thighs.

Vader bit back a surge of irritation and raised his hand, letting the Force flow through him to tighten the muscles of Thrawn’s neck. Thrawn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move.

“I said, strip,” said Vader, his voice low.

Thrawn didn’t break eye contact, and Vader didn’t relinquish his grasp on his throat. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, Thrawn slipped his thumbs between the waistband of his underwear and his skin. He tugged the briefs down past his soft cock — down his thighs — and let them fall to the floor. 

He stared up at Vader almost defiantly, his underwear tangled around his feet. Vader let his grip on Thrawn’s throat fade, but kept his hand raised as a warning.

“Now kneel,” he said.

He waited until Thrawn had just barely bent his knees before correcting him.

“No,” he said sharply. “Not on the floor.”

Thrawn stared at him, his face frozen in a look of polite confusion. Vader extended his hand until he was pointing at the conference table where Thrawn had sat so calmly mere minutes before.

“There,” he said. 

He watched as Thrawn studied the conference table, his face giving nothing away. His abs twitched slightly before he moved, the only sign of discomfort that Vader got from him. Slowly, with his jaw tight, Thrawn climbed onto the conference table and lowered himself to his knees.

He stared at Vader, waiting for more orders. His legs were tucked beneath him, his knees spread to give Vader a full view of his cock. Vader’s eyes tracked up to Thrawn’s hips, to his stomach, his abs clearly defined from tension and the effort it took not to tremble. His back was still straight, his chin held high.

“On your hands and knees,” Vader ordered.

Thrawn’s lips twitched in an expression of distaste that he hid almost instantly — but not so quickly that Vader missed it. His hands had been folded behind his back, but now Thrawn unfolded them, placing them flat against the conference table before him. He hesitated a moment before bending forward and adjusting the position of his legs.

His back was straight. There was an air of uncertainty to his posture now; this, Vader suspected, wasn’t a position Thrawn was used to taking. The hard surface of the conference table beneath his knees — the cool air of the room on his bare skin — the empty chairs all around him, each one usually filled by one of Thrawn’s own subordinates. 

He could see Thrawn’s eyes flickering to the empty chairs.

“Comfortable?” Vader asked.

Thrawn’s eyes shifted to him. He wiped every trace of expression off his face. 

“Yes,” he said, but his voice was soft — little more than a whisper.

He _couldn’t_ be comfortable, Vader thought with satisfaction. Not because of the position — Thrawn, he suspected, could get used to anything. No, it was impossible for Thrawn to be comfortable for one simple reason: he didn’t know what Vader was going to do next. 

Vader said nothing for a long moment, savoring the sensation of vague discomfort in Thrawn’s mind — a mind that was almost always opaque to him. 

Thrawn’s body, on the other hand…

Through the Force, Vader could feel Thrawn’s heart beating in his chest, his pulse elevated. He could feel the subtle trembling in his muscles, the way he struggled to keep his breathing even and calm. Outwardly, it was a good show; from simply _looking_ at Thrawn, Vader couldn’t tell how tense he was. But the Force revealed everything. 

He could feel the pressure in Thrawn’s bladder; light, not urgent, but exacerbated by the surge of adrenaline that kicked through him when Vader ordered him to strip, and made even worse by the alcohol he’d been drinking before. 

Vader circled Thrawn without speaking, watching the way his thighs quivered when Vader passed behind him; he noted the tension in the muscles of Thrawn’s back and arms as he held the position patiently, refusing to complain.

Vader passed Thrawn’s chair and picked up the empty glass as he walked by. There were dregs of Andoan ale left inside it; he took his time reclaiming his spot at the head of the table where Thrawn could see him.

And where he could see Thrawn’s eyes shift down to the empty glass.

A line appeared between Thrawn’s eyebrows; he knew there had to be a reason Vader was showing him this. Perhaps his mind jumped to more nefarious possibilities first — that he’d been poisoned or drugged. Vader let the silence stretch on, giving Thrawn plenty of time to wonder, and then he opened his hand and let the glass drop. 

“Do you understand what you’re going to do?” asked Vader. 

Thrawn hesitated, raising his head slightly to study Vader. He didn’t answer; when Vader closed his hand into a fist, tightening the muscles of Thrawn’s throat, Thrawn only arched his neck and bared his teeth in pain. 

At the same time, Vader couldn’t help but notice, his thighs tensed, moving closer together out of instinct. 

“You,” said Vader slowly, stepping forward and tightening his grip, “are going to piss right where you are.”

He waited for Thrawn to widen his eyes or show any other sign of surprise, but Thrawn only stared at Vader, his face darkening to an extent Vader hadn’t seen on him before. It was a look of contempt that bordered on hatred. Vader tilted his head, memorizing the expression — and then he released his grasp on Thrawn’s throat, letting him breathe.

“I will not force you,” he said mildly, watching Thrawn’s chest rise and fall. “You will do it of your own volition.”

He could sense Thrawn’s quiet defiance before Thrawn even raised his head.

“And if you don’t,” said Vader in the same even tone, “you will stay here, like this, until you have no choice. And I will leave you for your men to discover you in the morning. Like this.”

Lifting his hand, he used the Force to lock Thrawn’s body in place, keeping him in position but stiffening each joint until Thrawn couldn’t move. He watched Thrawn’s chest go still and knew he understood.

Only then did he release his hold.

He watched Thrawn’s posture sag only fractionally before he caught himself. Red eyes burned into Vader’s faceplate.

“You’re only proving my point,” Thrawn told him, matching Vader’s even tone. He sounded conversational, almost disappointed — like Obi-Wan had often sounded. “This type of abuse of power has no place in the Imperial Navy. You seek control through the humiliation of your subordinates; you make them fear you through violence. A true leader does not—”

Vader flexed his hand and watched as Thrawn’s throat worked, his teeth clicking together as his mouth shut against his will. 

“I said I will not force you,” said Vader. “That does not mean I am a patient man; if you don’t comply, I will lock you in place and leave you here as I promised.”

Thrawn’s eyes bored into his. Vader stared back at him, relishing the almost physical feeling of Thrawn’s throat against his hand.

“Make your choice,” he said.

He watched Thrawn take a breath and look down at the table, shifting his palms against the surface. Connected to the Force, Vader could feel the pressure in Thrawn’s bladder as he spread his knees ever so slightly on the table. He could feel Thrawn struggling to relax, to force himself to do what he’d been trained not to as a small child. 

Thrawn closed his eyes, and Vader didn’t admonish him to keep them open. It was possible, he thought, that Thrawn didn’t realize how easy to read his face became when his eyes were closed. Every hidden sign of discomfort and distress showed on him now as he took a deep breath, working against his own instincts.

A full minute elapsed in silence. Thrawn’s arms trembled, his breath coming out shallow as Vader watched him. A dull flush turned his cheeks a darker shade of blue. 

And then, just as Vader was about to take a warning step away from the table, Thrawn’s face shifted into a look of absent concentration … and a thin stream of urine pattered onto the table between his legs. 

Vader froze; the only sound in the room was his respirator and the faint hiss of urine from Thrawn as he let go. The trickle weakened, and a line appeared between Thrawn’s eyebrows, and then it strengthened again, turning from a trickle to a steady stream. 

He watched Thrawn’s posture sag against his will, relief and embarrassment mingling together as he emptied his bladder on the conference room table. The puddle beneath him grew rapidly, spreading out until it reached Thrawn’s hands — and he tensed, but he didn’t move, and the stream grew stronger for a moment, as if he’d involuntarily pushed it out.

Thrawn’s urine spilled over the sides of the table at the same time that his knees slid out from under him. He caught himself on his elbows in a puddle of his own piss, baring his teeth in a grimace. He was past the point of control now; he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried, Vader noted. Even as his legs gave out and he almost fell, Thrawn was helplessly pissing himself, unable to stop until his bladder was empty.

Still lying half on his stomach, Thrawn turned his face away.

Vader let him. He tilted his head, watching as the stream dried up. Piss dribbled from the head of Thrawn’s cock for a moment, and the puddle on the tabletop continued to trickle onto the floor and soak into the carpet.

But he’d done as Vader told him.

And now he couldn’t seem to look Vader in the eye.

“Get dressed,” Vader told him, his voice toneless. He pushed Thrawn into a sitting position using the Force and then let him fend for himself; Thrawn placed one hand flat on the table — on the _dry_ end of the table — and kept himself from falling. His shoulders were slumped, his hair hanging in front of his eyes.

He slid off the table without glancing at Vader once. He got dressed slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line, with Vader watching him and nothing to dry off with. The urine glistening on his stomach and legs didn’t stain his uniform — not visibly, at least — but Vader knew it would soak into the material from the inside, making it stick to Thrawn’s skin. 

He waited until Thrawn was tying his boots with trembling fingers and a blazing eyes, and then Vader thumbed his comlink on.

“Commodore Faro,” he said levelly. “Grand Admiral Thrawn is on his way to the bridge. You will review the surveillance reports with him when he arrives.”

Thrawn looked up sharply, his lips thinning even further. But he said nothing — he didn’t question Vader, and he didn’t complain. He only glanced sideways at the conference table and the evidence of what he’d done.

“Admiral?” said Vader, testing him.

Thrawn looked at him, his eyes wide and glazed, his mouth set in a serious frown. He hadn’t bothered to fix his hair yet.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” he said as he stood. He glanced at the table again, the indigo flush returning to his cheeks. 

“Leave it,” said Vader with a satisfaction he couldn’t hide. “You’re wanted on the bridge.”

Thrawn ducked his head, his face unreadable as he nodded. He stepped past Vader on his way out, giving him a wide berth — and Vader could smell the faint scent of urine coming off him, as would Faro, as would several other officers on the bridge if Thrawn wasn’t careful.

Alone in the room, Vader gazed at the table and the stains on the carpet beneath it. He crossed to a control panel on the bulkhead, checked the room’s schedule.

He canceled its routine cleaning with a single, anonymous order and glanced around again once more before he left.

Perhaps now, he thought, Grand Admiral Thrawn would understand which of them was truly in control.


End file.
